


The quality of winter

by Del (goddessdel)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2017 Adlock Gift Exchange, F/M, Great Hiatus, Post-Reichenbach, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-27 16:45:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessdel/pseuds/Del
Summary: Of course it would have to be now that he sees her [...] battered and broken and freezing on a Serbian street.





	The quality of winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Francesca_Wayland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Francesca_Wayland/gifts).



> Happy belated holidays, new year, and birthday to Francesca Wayland!
> 
> I took some liberty with your prompts, so I hope a Great Hiatus fic is an acceptable offering.
> 
> Completed for the 2017 Adlock Fic Exchange at The Mantelpiece (Written: 10/17/17 - 1/1/18).
> 
> Thanks to Becs for the beta and to Beverly and Tali for the support. All mistakes remain my own.

He hears her first. The distinctive cadence of her walk, of stilettos striking solid ice. Of course it would have to be now that he sees her - huddled on what appears to be a blanket but close observation would reveal as a coat, in disguise as one of his homeless network - battered and broken and freezing on a Serbian street.

 

She's draped in furs and followers. She might as well have been a queen for how they surround her.

 

" _Dinner_?"

 

The word is in Serbian but Sherlock says it with his own voice - not the husk of a man he's pretending to be. He extends a bare hand into the cold, palm up, wrist exposed. To her sycophants it will seem a desperate cry from a desperate man, begging for food. But The Woman will understand.

 

_Let's have dinner._

_Because I took your pulse._

 

Her confident stride falters, just for a millisecond, easily explained by the ice. She turns her head fractionally, and their eyes meet.

  
Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler in the middle of a frozen Serbian street.

 

Something falls from her hand, its landing muffled by the snow, and then she's gone, a swirl of dark furs and darker hair, trailed by her doting (and clearly dangerous) entourage.

 

Once the street is deserted again, just the wind and ice and Sherlock Holmes, unnoticed and unremarked upon, his hand snakes out toward a shimmer in the snow before hastily retreating to the limited warmth of his pocket.

 

Curled in his fist is a diamond ring.

 

...

 

The alleyway is derelict and abandoned, a forgotten enclave hidden between towering buildings. Sherlock leans against the crumbling red brick with an unlit cigarette between his lips, waiting.

 

He's not the invisible beggar anymore - that disguise is unnecessary here, where everything is invisible. He's wearing a heavy coat, though regrettably not his own, and there are sturdy, fur-lined gloves in its pockets.

 

Her high heels echo like gunshots in the alley; there's no point in her hiding here either.

 

A flame sparks to life in the wan afternoon light, illuminating pale features and blood red lips in its flickering glow as Sherlock bends to light his cigarette.

 

He takes one controlled inhale before dropping the cigarette to the frozen earth, where it sputters out with the pretense.

 

The Woman slaps him then kisses him. Her hands hauling him to her by his tangled hair.

 

It's always like this, in these stolen moments where they both know with absolute certainty that the other is alive.

 

There's a mixture of frustration and yearning between them that is only accelerated by the uncertainty of time and distance between their rendezvous, by the thrill and jeopardy of these chance encounters, by the possibility that each meeting may be their last.

 

Sherlock presses forward until The Woman's back hits the wall with a muffled sound, his hands cradling her head before it can hit the brick, and he doesn't relinquish her when they're forced to part for breath.

 

The Woman's fingertips are icy but encouraging along the back of his neck as he crowds her, his fingers catching in her carefully coiffed hair as he shoves her hood away from her face before dragging his hands down the newly bared skin of her neck to twist open the clasp to her coat.

 

Snowflakes settle on her hair as the wind picks up, and Sherlock steps closer to shield her from the chill with his body and coat.

 

Her dress doesn't look heavy enough for the weather - she's snuck away from some posh affair, clearly a precursor to attending the ballet at the National Theatre later - all silks and furs. Her nipples are visible through her gown, pebbled from the cold, and Sherlock flicks his thumbs across them, eliciting a stifled gasp from The Woman as her hands clutch at his coat.

 

There's something intoxicating about knowing what _she_ likes - just how to draw out those little moans and sighs that turn her body into music. Every encounter with The Woman is branded across him as the sheet music to a unique symphony.

 

While he's distracted by her, The Woman somehow manages to slip her hands under his shirt, her freezing fingertips skittering up his stomach and making Sherlock jump. She laughs, so he shuts her up with another hard kiss, his own hands inching up her silky gown.

 

Sherlock slides one hand up her stockings until he finds her preferred suspenders - impractical but hardly a surprise - and can press cold fingers against the warm, bare skin of her thigh. The Woman shivers, shifting to give him more access, her nails raking down his sides.

 

Sherlock doesn’t linger to warm his hand against her skin, pressing chilled fingertips against the thin silk covering the slick heat of her sex. He shoves the fabric to the side until he can touch her bare skin, dragging his fingers slowly over her clit and down to just rest against her slick entrance.

 

The Woman whimpers at the sudden chill, her hips tilting into him and one of her hands wrapping around his wrist to urge him faster. When he resists, she bites his lip - sharp, controlled pain - and Sherlock tears his mouth from hers with a groan.

 

In the anemic winter light her lips glisten redder, her eyes wild and blown wide.

 

Sherlock nudges her furs out of the way until he can bring his lips to her neck, sucking hard - hard enough to leave a mark - hard until her pulse races hot and fast under his tongue.

 

Only then does he give in and press one finger into her heat, his thumb still slowly circling her clit.

 

The Woman's encouraging moan sighs out against his ear, her hands already busy undoing his trousers.

 

They don't have much time, of course. Even if they did - the temperature naturally limits the duration of their exposure to the elements. Her lips are cool against his ear, in contrast to her warm breath, and her fingers are still freezing when they brush his stomach.

 

She hauls him closer, fingers digging into his side, and Sherlock shifts to wrap his coat more securely around them as he begins to pump his fingers faster, curling them up until The Woman trembles, pinned between him and the wall.

 

Their hands are warming against one another's skin, safe from the bitter wind biting at their faces. Not content to be the only one trembling, The Woman's hand dips into his trousers, still cool against the sensitive skin of his cock in a way that makes his blood run hotter rather than stifling his heavy arousal.

 

Sherlock hitches The Woman's leg over his hip, under his coat for warmth as her dress bunches between them, the hem damp with melting snow. Her hand is still on his cock, drawing him determinedly out of his trousers, her other hand closing at his wrist, tugging firmly even as she takes his pulse.

 

_Pulse elevated; pupils dilated._

 

Her tongue traces his ear, her cheek heated against his, and Sherlock feels a jolt low in his stomach.

 

The shocking chill of the ambient air on his cock makes him shudder and instinctively press against her until their bare skin brushes, hot and slick.

 

The Woman moans encouragingly, the sound loud and obscene against his ear, and Sherlock withdraws his fingers from her sex to replace them with his cock, guided by The Woman's steady hand.

 

Sherlock bends his knees and The Woman arches her hips towards him, her arms looping around his neck for leverage as he buries himself in her heat.

 

They both gasp at the sensation, and then The Woman's lips slide to over his, muffling any further sound.

 

Sherlock sets a fast, deep rhythm, feeling feverish with the heat of her, drawn helplessly back into her to escape the frigid winter air. Caught up in the hedonistic escape of being with The Woman, of being able to be himself after so long hidden under disguises.

 

The silk of her dress and cotton of his shirt are caught between them, dragging against sensitive skin until The Woman bunches the fabric in her fist, yanking their clothing up as she grabs hold of his coat. She slips slightly with the movement, everything fast and jumbled between them already, and Sherlock slides his hands under her, gripping her arse and sliding her roughly up the wall.

 

The Woman's legs wrap around him like a vice, her sharp heels digging into his arse as she throws her head back against the brick, just saved from concussion by her furs. Her arm is tight around his neck, her fingers twisted in his hair.

 

Sherlock growls as she yanks at his hair, gravity driving them closer with each thrust of his hips. He has more leverage now, and The Woman certainly approves of the angle, evident by the way she bites at her lip and squeezes her eyes shut. He ducks his head to nip at the exposed column of her neck, lapping up the snowflakes melting against her heated skin and earning a shuddering moan as she tightens around him.

 

They're both close already, nerves buzzing with the juxtaposition of fevered skin and icy wind, synapses firing with that enticing mix of pleasure and pain that is practically The Woman's calling card.

 

Sherlock snaps his hips faster, twisting just slightly until The Woman's gasp hitches into a moan, her fingers digging into his scalp as she rocks against him, pinned against the wall with her other hand and their clothing caught between them.

 

Her orgasm rocks through both of them, her body clenching around his until Sherlock has to sink his teeth into her collarbone to avoid shouting out his own release.

 

The Woman's hands loosen gently from his hair and coat, their clothing falling back into place between them. Sherlock lifts his head long enough to kiss her, just one more time, while they're still desperate and out of breath and it's all a bit _not good_ and _too much_.

 

It's too cold to linger, even if they were prone to such sentiment, and they disentangle carefully, The Woman's heels digging back into the icy ground.

 

She doesn't immediately push away from the wall, her hands busy adjusting her knickers and dress as Sherlock does up his trousers, rifling through his coat for his cigarettes instead of stepping away.

 

She offers her lighter as Sherlock draws out two cigarettes, handing one to The Woman with quirk of his lips that matches hers.

 

The Woman takes a practiced drag and blows out the smoke in perfect round _O_ s, one eyebrow arched. Sherlock snorts, _obvious_ , and exhales with pointed normalcy, resisting the urge to be drawn into competition.

 

They smoke together in silence, snow gathering in their hair and their fingers freezing, the cold and nicotine a welcome respite to the endorphins still carousing through bloodstreams. Their eyes remain on each other as they flick the ends carelessly into the snow, where they fizzle out with a hiss.

 

"I hate the beard."

 

They're the first words she's spoken to him.

 

One blood red fingernail trails his cheekbone, following the line where she'd slapped him earlier.

 

_I could cut myself slapping that face._

 

"Why, because it softens the blow?" Sherlock runs his fingers over the imprint of his teeth on her collarbone, over delicate skin reddened and splotchy with marks from his beard. "Or because it leaves marks you'd rather not explain?"

 

They both know it's the latter.

 

The Woman smooths down her dress, ignoring the heavy wrinkles, and covers her state of disarray pointedly with her coat. "I never bother to explain myself."

 

They both know she's lying, or perhaps he's the exception.

 

She offers an arched brow that dares him to ask for such an explanation as she pushes off the wall and brushes past him.

 

"You've forgotten something."

 

When she turns back, Sherlock slides the heavy diamond onto her left ring finger. A perfect fit.

 

It's an affect from her latest disguise, no doubt. Part of her plans in Belgrade. He could guess, but he'd never be right. He could ask, but she'd never tell him. Worse, she might inquire about his own disguise - the reason he's freezing in Serbian streets with a full beard and long hair when he ought to be dead.

 

She could be married. To someone else. To any number of others.

 

When he glances up, her eyes are sparkling to match the diamond.

 

Perhaps he just proposed.

 

Perhaps he meant to.

 

Sherlock smirks and shakes his head, pulling his collar up and shoving his hands into his pockets.

 

The Woman dons her leather gloves with a smile that is all teeth, straightening her coat and replacing her hood, carefully disguising her flushed skin under furs.

 

They turn different directions down the icy winter street, two strangers going about their lives.

 

Until the next time.

 

...

 

The first thing Sherlock does when he returns to London is shave.

 

_I hate the beard._


End file.
